The Monkees Meet the Mob
by A.L.McFarlane
Summary: Peter and Mike accidentally eavesdrop on something they were not supposed to hear. When the consequences catch up with them, can Micky and Davy save them from whatever lies in store for them at the hands of the mob? And just how far will half the band go for the sake of the others?
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **My first fanfiction for "The Monkees". I hope it turns out alright! I love all the Monkees equally when it comes to writing them. They are such wonderful boys! I'll update this as frequently as possible._

_One more thing - yes, I have been reading and/or following some stories in this fandom under a different pen name. I'm normally really busy, and don't have time to review steadily. I'll try to drop a few here and there, but in case I can't, I would like to to extend many kudos and thanks to the following authors:  
_

_saiken2009, PlushChrome, Crystal Rose of Pollux, ChaosKirin, MonkeeMidgie_

_For the long hours of reading enjoyment I have been so ungrateful for.  
_

* * *

That small yet popular Malibu teenage haunt, Bernie's Burger Bin, was thronging with the usual Friday-night collection of young people. Some sat around in the brightly coloured booths chatting and enjoying the hamburgers that had first made the restaurant famous. Others were rocking it up on the dance floor, wildly improvising steps to the beat of music played by a band well-known to the regular patrons, a group of four boys known as The Monkees.

The curly-haired drummer was singing lead to the current song – a song in a minor key with a fairly heavy beat, about a boy refusing to be used as a metaphorical doormat by his popularity- seeking girlfriend. In front of him, below the raised platform, a short boy danced and banged a tambourine against his hip while singing backup. Occasionally he would make eye contact with one of the girls in audience or wink at another, usually followed by a coy grin or a small giggle by the girl in question. On either side of this boy stood the two guitarists. One, a long-legged, skinny fellow in a green wool cap, held a white twelve-string which he played with a determined concentration. The other, a sandy-haired boy, played bass while beaming out at the audience with a glowing, dimpled grin.

Soon the song finished, and, accompanied by applause, the four musicians proceeded backstage. Once they were safely in their dressing room and away from the audience, all four gave a sigh of relief.

"That went well," Mike, the one with the wool hat, commented happily as he placed his guitar gently in its case. "Good job, guys."

"I think that was the most applause we've got in a while," Peter remarked with another dimpled smile. "Say, Mike, when do we get paid?"

"Two weeks," came the reply.

"Well that's not so far off," Davy, the short member noted in an accent layered with the tones of Manchester. "Then I'll be able to date again!"

His fellow band mates laughed and shook their heads. Davy was, in a word, completely girl-crazy, and he made no effort to hide it.

"I dunno about dates, but I'm gonna buy me the biggest meal in the history of eating," the drummer, Micky, grinned.

"I think all of us are gonna be a part of that, buddy," Mike chuckled. "It's been at least a month since our last square meal." This was the truth. The boys were always in a state of monetary disarray, and their small icebox was nearly always empty.

"Speaking of food," Davy said. "One of the waitresses out there is absolutely lovely. I think I'll go introduce myself."

"I'm coming too," Micky announced. Davy raised his eyebrows in surprise, and the curly-haired boy went on. "I need a burger, and you need a chaperone."

Davy gave him a scathing ha-ha-very-funny look, but did not object to his company. Together they left, leaving Mike and Peter in the dressing room packing up the instruments.

The two younger members of the band had only been gone a couple of minutes when Peter heard men's voices coming through the wall. He was packing up Davy's tambourine and maracas as a favour to his friend, crouching near the wall as he did so. As a result he heard almost every word of the conversation next door.

He didn't mean to eavesdrop; it was an accident.

But that accident was about to have a huge impact on their lives.

At first he didn't really realise what was being said. It sounded like a load of silly nonsense to him, and he told the same to Mike.

"Oh," said Mike absently from the other side of the room, where he was putting away Micky's drums (which he had just brought in from the stage). "And what are they saying, shotgun?"

"Silly stuff," replied Peter, causally. "About an old lady, and a big boss, and some sugar candy, and a treasure map, and tomorrow night, and-"

Something suddenly occurred to Mike, and caused him to stiffen. He hoped his sudden suspicions were proved completely false, but he had read too many adventure novels in his life time to prevent them from cropping up at all. And Mike's suspicions, once existent, would never go away until proved right or wrong.

Peter noticed his sudden change of attitude, and asked, concerned, "Michael, what is it?"

"Did you say the next room, Peter?"

"Yeah. So?"

"This is the only real room back here. Right next door is a janitor's closet."

"Oh," murmured Peter in hushed tones.

"I may be very wrong with this, but I'm pretty sure when two or more men meet in a janitor's closet and talk about things like times and days and sugar candy and old ladies and big bosses, it ain't for anything that could possibly be _legal_."

"Like what not legal, Mike?"

"You got me there, shotgun. I'm thinking maybe a gang jewel heist or something."

"A jewel heist!" No sooner had the words left Peter's mouth when he clamped his hands over it in horror. He had said the last far louder than intended. Apparently the sudden change in volume had not gone unnoticed, because the voices in the next room suddenly gave way to tense silence.

"Sorry," Peter whispered, looking at his shoes. Mike sighed and shook his head.

"Nothing we can fix now, shotgun."

Suddenly the door burst open, and the two Monkees found themselves looking into the business end of a small revolver and, right above it, the faces of two very angry men.

"Right, you kids," the man with the gun snarled, motioning slightly with the firearm as he spoke. "Hands up!" then turning to the man behind him, he growled, "What should we do with 'em Pierce? Shoot 'em?"

"Nah," Pierce replied in nasally voice. "The boss said to lie low. Let's just take 'em with us!"

"You could just leave us here," Mike offered, hopefully. "We won't tell, promise!"

"Yeah," said Peter, supportively. "Cross our hearts, hope to die-" Mike winced, and the two gangsters chuckled cruelly.

"You sure you hope that, kid?" Pierce snorted. Peter looked up, his lower lip stuck out stubbornly.

"Only if we break the promise," he said, crossing his arms with an air of finality.

"Oh shuddup," Pierce snarled. "While Jocko here and I decide what to do with you."

Apparently their captors were not the sharpest tools in the box, and Mike thanked heaven for small favours.

* * *

While all this was going on backstage, the two other members of the band were out enjoying themselves in the restaurant, oblivious to their band mates' plight. They sat on either side of a booth, Davy casually flirting with the pretty waitress (whose name was Jennifer), and Micky casually flirting with the hamburger she had just brought him. When she left to return to her job, the two boys made silly conversation until she returned, a little later, with the bill. Upon seeing it, Micky's eyes grew wide as he fished in his pocket.

"Shoot,' he muttered. "Forgot my wallet. Have you got any cash on you, Davy?"

"I'm afraid not," Davy replied, rolling his eyes. "For pity's sake, Micky, why didn't you think of that before?"

"Dunno," said Micky, slowly. "Guess I was just really hungry."

"You look it," Jennifer said, pityingly, and Micky, not sure if that was sympathy or condescension, merely nodded in reply. "Listen, I'll get my boss. You can work something out with him."

She left, and returned shortly with a small, balding man, slightly over fifty, who identified himself as Bernie Jacobs, the owner and manager. He looked a little worried, but as soon as he saw who it was that was unable to pay, his face cracked into a cheerful grin.

"Oh, it's just you guys," he said, in loud, friendly tones. "The Monkees. Listen, you cats played so well and since I won't be able to pay you for two weeks, I guess you can have that burger for free."

"Gosharoony, thanks, Mr Jacobs!" Micky exclaimed, gratefully.

"Please, call me Bernie!" the friendly manager replied with a smile. "Say, where are those other two guys? I'd like to thank them too!"

"Oh, they're still backstage," Davy replied.

"Well let's go see them, then!" Bernie exclaimed, cheerily, and the three got up and made their way back to the dressing room, with the restaurant owner making loud conversation the whole way.

* * *

Back in the dressing room, Pierce and Jocko were still trying to decide what to do with their two prisoners, when the managers loud voice suddenly echoed from a little ways down the hall. Jocko looked in sudden terror at Pierce.

"Whadda we do?"

"No time to think about that," Pierce growled. "Scram!"

Jocko scrammed.

But before Pierce left, he turned to the two boys.

"The Big Boss is gonna hear about this. And when he finds you, you kids are gonna wish we'd just killed you here."

With that, he left the room.

As soon as the gangsters had left, Mike and Peter bolted for the door. They met Bernie, Micky, and Davy in the hall, and while Peter told the story in one extremely long, fast sentence, Mike called the police.

The police said that they recognised Pierce and Jocko from their description as two small time members of a large gang, and that the two were wanted on charges of petty theft. They also told Mike to be very careful until they told him it was okay not to be.

The next day, they called to say that the two men had been arrested down on the waterfront early that morning. Nothing happened for two weeks, and the Monkees began to forget the incident – first Davy and Micky, then Peter, and then even Mike began to put it from his mind.

Until exactly two weeks later, when it returned to haunt them with a vengeance.


	2. Chapter 2

_Just a couple things: _

_The conversation between Peter and Mike has a little reference to the story, but it was mostly my trying to get a bit deeper under the characters' skins. I actually wrote half of this chapter befor I wrote chapter one. I hope it makes sense and is worth reading.  
_

_My knowledge of American police ranks is very limited. If there are any problems, please tell me._

* * *

_Two weeks later…_

"That was wonderful," said Mike said dreamily as he left the dinner table and settled on the fainting couch, his beloved twelve-string in his arms.

"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to really be full," Peter observed, his face cracking into a dimpled smile of satisfaction. "It's kinda nice to feel a little too full after a meal for once."

"For you, babe!" An agonised groan echoed from behind the bathroom door. "Remember some of us are dying here!"

"Peter was talking about eating just a _little_ too much, Mick," Mike called, not looking up. "Nothing like the amount you ate."

"Oh just go-" the rest of Micky's sentence was cut off by a rather horrifying retching noise, which could be heard, in somewhat muffled glory, through the wall.

"Yeah, Mike!" Davy said, grinning as he hopped down the tornado staircase, adjusting the cuff of the shirt into which he had just changed. "I mean, eleven helpings of lasagna isn't all _that _much!"

"I heard that, shorty!" Micky muttered as he staggered uncertainly from the bathroom, clutching his tortured middle. "And for the record, you're wearing _my _shirt!"

"Well that shouldn't matter too much, considering you're wearing one of Peter's!"

"What about me?" Peter, lost in a book, looked up, his name having registered in his brain. Then, seeing Davy had changed, asked absently, "Date tonight?"

"As a matter of fact, yes-"

"Not so fast," Mike cut in, sharply. "You're on dishes tonight, remember?"

"Oh, shoot. Knew I'd forgotten something!" The English boy snapped his fingers to punctuate his statement. "Guess I'll just have to do them when I get home..."

"No deal, Casanova. Knowing your dates that could be anywhere from late tonight to the middle of next July! And by then those dishes will be disgusting."

"But-"

"But since this is the first time you or any of us have has pocket money in over a month, I'll spell you tonight." Mike finished with a grin. Davy looked like he could have kissed his Texan friend, and he said as much.

"Save that for your girlfriend, buddy," was all Mike gave as a reply as he watched his younger friend speed from the room.

Peter offered to help Mike with the dishes, while Micky went upstairs to sleep off the damage he had done his digestive system at dinner.

"It sure was nice of you to do that for Davy, Mike," Peter said as he dried a large, freshly-cleaned pot.

"Oh, well, you know," the taller boy replied, rather embarrassed at the praise. "The kid hasn't had any money in a while, and he's wanted to take what's-her-name-"

"-Jennifer." Mike let the plate he was washing slip from his wet hand and land with a splash, looking at his sandy-haired friend with a mixture of amusement and astonishment.

"And just how do you know that, shotgun?"

"Davy talks in his sleep," came the sage reply. "You were saying?"

"Oh, yeah," continued Mike, thoughtfully. "Anyway, he's wanted to take this chick out for a while. So I just decided to let him have a little fun, you know, in light of the fact we just got paid for that godsend-of-a-gig." Peter nodded slowly, and Mike went on, musingly,

"I wonder what makes Davy so girl-crazy. I mean, it's not like he's a womaniser or anything."

"I think I can answer that," Peter replied, softly.

"Well, I was thinking of it being a little more of a rhetorical question, man, but sure, go ahead."

"Well, he reacts the same way to everything. He's - what's the word? - impertious." Mike didn't bother to correct his friend; he knew Peter meant 'impetuous', but he as far too interested in what was being said to correct the other boy. "He sees a pretty girl and he thinks he's in love, without considering that it might only be a passing thing, or that there might be consequences, the same way he challenges guys twice his size when they make him mad. He takes his romance all really light, but I think it's 'cause he doesn't really get it yet. And it's the same with Micky, though quite as much."

"More like food, in Micky's case," Mike observed dryly. "Like today."

"I dunno," said Peter. "You weren't around for the incident with Brenda."

"Well, no," Mike admitted.

"Both Micky and Davy are heart-before-head kinda guys."

"Oh, yeah? And what am I?" Mike asked, laughingly curious.

"You're expecting me to say your head comes first, but I'm not gonna," said, Peter not looking up from the cutlery he was carefully drying. "Though you have more common sense than the rest of us."

Mike just looked at him in amazement for a moment, then asked quietly,

"And how do you see yourself, shotgun?"

Peter chuckled. "I've never had much head to boast about. So I'm obviously the same as you three."

"I don't believe that, Pete. And you shouldn't either."

The sandy-haired boy looked up questioningly at his dark-haired friend, who continued with a small smile.

"No, shotgun. I think you're one of those few people whose heart and head work in perfect sync. You're not capable of making a decision either would regret."

It was Peter's turn to look bashful.

"You make me sound special."

"Not an accident, buddy."

Peter's blushing face cracked into a brilliant, glowing, dimpled smile of the type only he possessed, and impulsively he threw himself onto his taller friend, hugging him fiercely.

"I love having you for a friend, Michael."

"Thanks, good buddy. The same to you. Though I think another friend of ours may need some help." He added, as a loud groan was heard from upstairs.

"I'll go," said Peter, dashing up the stairs. He returned a few moments later and headed for the cupboard where the boys kept there few cleaning supplies.

"Mick puke again?"

Peter nodded. "I don't think it had to do with how much he ate, though. I think he might be reacting to something in the food."

"Ouch," Mike replied, with a sympathetic wince. "Does he need anything, medicine-wise?"

"If he does there's nothing we can do about it 'til tomorrow, unless we can get hold of Davy and ask him to pick something up before the pharmacy shuts at nine."

"There's a thought. We could try Jennifer's house. They might not have left there yet. Do you know her last name?"

"No, but I know where Davy keeps his book of phone numbers."

"Okay, see if you can get in touch with him. I only have to wash the cutting board, and it can wait 'til after I've cleaned up Micky's mess." Wiping his soapy hands on his apron, he removed it, and grabbing the necessary cleaning implements from the cupboard, went upstairs to the bedroom he and Micky shared.

* * *

The door to Jennifer's house, 1145 Aspenview Crescent, swung open moments after the doorbell rang. Davy stood there, picking minute specks of dust off the sleeves of the shirt he wore, but when his date answered the door he stopped, and looked up at her with a grin.

"Hello, luv!" He said cheerfully, with a ridiculous little bow. Jennifer giggled.

"Hi," she said, stepping aside to let him in. "Listen, Davy, I'd like to change before we go out. I was helping Mr. Perkins next for with some work just before you came."

"Sure thing, Jenny."

"You can sit in the living room and watch TV. I'll be twenty minutes max, promise."

Davy nodded and, after depositing a little pecking kiss on her cheek, made his way into the living room while his girlfriend went upstairs. He settled on the four-seat sofa, and picked up the remote lying on the coffee table. When he turned the power on, the station was set to the news, and a suave looking man with slicked black hair was announcing in a studied tone of voice.

"…reports of gang-like operations in the waterfront area …"

Just then, the princess phone on the mantelpiece let out a loud ring, and Jenny called down the stairs to Davy, asking him to take the call. He obliged- a good thing, as the caller turned out to be none other than Peter.

_"Hello, Davy?"_

"Peter! What's up? Is everything okay?"

_"Just fine, but we think Micky's reacting to something in the food. Do you think you could drop by the drug store and pick up something for his stomach?"_

"Sure, man. I'm guessing Micky threw up again?"

_"You got it, but I gotta go, Davy. Someone's at the door. Bye!"_

"Buh-bye."

Davy hung up. Turning back to the TV, he reached for the remote, but was stopped by Jenny's voice behind him.

"I'm ready, sweetie."

"Okay, then, let's be on our way." Davy replied, cheerfully, offering her his arm. "Say, Jenny-love, would you mind me running a quick errand on our way to the cinema? One of me mates called, and he said me other mate is getting sick, and needs something from the drug store. That okay?"

"Sure, Davy. I'll wait for you in the car." Jenny said, kindly, giving him a little kiss. "You're such a generous boy - so good to your friends."

"Not really," Davy replied, thinking of the dishes he had abandoned back at the Pad. "Nothing they wouldn't do for me at any rate."

"You guys are really lucky. A lot of people never have even one friendship like that. You each have three."

"I guess I am lucky, babe. But you know why I'm even luckier today?" By this time the couple had reached the car, and Davy gallantly leapt forward to open the door for the girl. Taking his meaning, she giggled and climbed in.

_*Bang-bang*_

"...Someone's at the door. Bye!"

_"Buh-bye"_

Peter hung up the phone, and stood up. He was halfway to the door when Mike appeared on the landing outside the room he and Micky shared.

"You got that, Peter?" He asked, quickly descending the stairs. "Did you manage to getta hold of Davy?"

"Yeah," replied Peter. "But, Mike, who could be at the door? I just talked to Davy, and anyway he wouldn't knock, and if he did it wouldn't be that hard. And Mr. Babbitt's in New York, visiting family, so it couldn't be him!"

A second series of knocks, louder and more vicious and accompanied by a gruff shout, came from the other side of the door. Mike was surprised to see the nervousness in his friend's face.

"Peter...?"

"Oh, Michael...you don't think..."

Mike suddenly realised what his friend was thinking, and then recoiled in horror as he understood the logic behind it. In the back of his mind he recalled Pierce the Gangster's threat of two weeks before. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said in his best attempt at a calm, even tone.

"Peter, go upstairs and get Micky down here. _Fast. _They don't know about him, I hope, so there's a chance we can get him out. Then run." Peter opened his mouth to say something, but Mike stopped him. "I'll be right there with you. No way I'm hanging round. But hurry, they're gonna break down the door any minute. I'll try and reinforce it."

Peter nodded, and while he dashed upstairs to Micky and Mike's room, Mike seized everything he could and shoved it against the door. For once he was grateful for the amount of junk he and his friends had collected and littered around the place. Up against the door went the fainting couch, the chairs, the dining room table, Mr. Schneider - Mike even risked the destruction of his amplifier by adding it to the makeshift barricade. When he felt he had constructed something sturdy enough to hold the men outside for long enough to allow them to escape, he backed away, joining Peter, who was supporting a rather green-looking Micky, at the foot of the stairs.

"Let's go, fellahs," he said grimly.

"Wait, Mike." Micky's enunciation was slightly slurred. "What's going on? Who are these guys?"

"Remember the gang whose plans Peter and I messed up by overhearing them at the gig a couple weeks back? " Mike asked, and Micky groaned.

"Same guys?"

Mike nodded. "That's what we think."

Another loud bang was heard coming from the other side of the door, and Peter cringed.

"C'mon guys, let's go!"

With that, the three turned and fled out the back door and down to the beach.

* * *

Davy decided that the date, overall, had been a success. Jenny had enjoyed the movie - and, he thought, his company- very much. She had laughed at all his jokes, listened happily to all his stories, and had even told a good few of her own. Then it had ended on her doorstep with a kiss – the only way to end a wonderful date.

He sighed in contentment and leaned back in the driver's seat, subconsciously noting that he was fast coming to the last corner of his journey – the left hand turn onto North Beechwood. His watch read 10:30; the other guys should still be up. He grinned when he thought of them, and what he would tell them, and how nice it would be to get home.

He was completely unprepared for the shock he received when he turned the corner.

The street was flooded with the flashing blue, white, and red light of police cars. The air was filled with a babble of noise – policemen talking and calling to one another, and a few shocked noises from the neighboUrhood people who had come out to see what the hullabaloo was about. A kind of indescribable nervousness and horror welled up in Davy.

_Surely not,_ he though, desperately.

Parking the car, he leapt out, making for the centre of the commotion. He was soon pulled up short, however, by a large hand on his chest. He looked up into the weathered face of a middle aged police officer.

"And just Where are you going, son?"

"That's-That's," Davy, in his unease, found himself having trouble forming his words. "I _live_ here! My name is David Jones, I live here with my three friends. We're a band – the Monkees-"

The officer nodded, raising a hand to stem the flow of speech from the young man's mouth, and then beckoned for him to follow as he wended his way through the police cars and officers scattered around the site. In a minute or so Davy found himself face to face with a plain clothes officer, about thirty, with a clam expression only slightly disturbed by the lines of stress and worry that were traced across his brow. The officer who had led the young Englishman to him introduced the boy, and gave the man his story.

"What address do you live at, Mr. Jones?"

"1334," Davy replied, quickly. "Please, can you tell me what happened? My friends – their names are Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, and Peter Tork- are they around here somewhere?"

"You say you live at 1334?" The plain clothes officer said, interrupting. Davy nodded, and the man gave a deep sigh the emotions behind which could not be interpreted. Then he continued, more slowly. "My name is Detective Oliver Carstairs. You had better come back to the station with me, Mr Jones. There's a lot you need to know."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I hope this chapter is alright. The last couple days have been a bit hectic, and I had to write in short stints. **

**I'd like to extend a huge thank-you to all my reviewers for their support. You are the ones that make this all worthwhile.**

**Warning: this chapter is a little more intense than those before.**

* * *

As he, Mike, and Peter ran down the flight of outdoor steps that led from the pad to the beach, Micky found that the pains and nausea of moments ago was fast fading as panic began to rise in his chest. He soon lost all feelings of illness to the desire to get away as fast as possible, and thus it was not hard to keep up with his two friends.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs and feeling the warm beach sand beneath his get (which were bare- there had been no time to put any shoes on, and he had forgotten, anyway) Micky began to feel a faint glimmer of hope after all. They might make it away after all; they might actually be able to get away and beg asylum with the police or something.

All these newborn hopes were crushed, however, as a growling shout sounded behind them.

"Hey, you kids! Stop!"

_Highly likely_, Micky mentally scoffed, as he ran, and he was pretty sure he heard Mike, running beside him, make a similar noise out loud. Then a loud shot rang out from behind them.

_Oh, that's just wonderful. They've got guns._

With this new development, Micky knew they would have to change their course. Running along the beach, they were exposed, easy targets for the bullets of their pursuers. However, if they could find cover of some sort, and be able to duck and weave and create more of a maze as they ran, he knew their chances would be much greater. Exchanging a glance with Mike confirmed that the Texan had been thinking along the same lines. All they needed was the opportunity.

The rocky hill that rose up along the edge of the beach was now beginning to flatten. Micky recognised the area they were in, and knew they were coming closer to the poorer end of town. If they ran on (for approximately double the time they had already spent running, though Micky didn't know how much that was) they would soon reach the docks, the centre of the industrial area. A few more shots sounded behind them, but luckily all missed their marks. The three boys ran on, however, for their goal was now in sight.

Within moments they had reached it - a small alley which led off the beach and into a rather dirty street lined with stone apartment buildings, interrupted at regular intervals by alleys similar to the one they used to access it. The Monkees did not, as a rule, frequent this part of town, but they knew about it, and the knowledge was coming in handy. Unfortunately their pursuers seemed to share their knowledge, as they were hot on their heels.

And gaining, fast.

Micky could practically hear their panting breaths behind them now. Yet another gunshot- this one passing so close to his head it ruffled his curls. The rush of air it created sent the thrill of panicked terror through him anew, and it spurred him forward, so much so he did not notice that he was beginning to outpace Mike and Peter.

Then Peter tripped.

Mike had been running beside the unfortunate boy the entire time, with Micky at first a little behind, and now a little ahead. The three had made their way through the alley and into the street, which was deserted. The lights were on, for it was now after nine and beginning to grow very dark and the street around them was flooded with yellow light. This light, however, did not stretch in all areas; two of the lights were burnt out, and here and there a shadow would blacken out a patch of the street. It was when they were running through one such shadow that Peter fell, his foot having caught on a large crack in the sidewalk.

Once he was down, with a small 'oomph' as the air was knocked out of his lungs, Peter didn't stand a chance. The men behind them were on top of him in a moment, dragging the poor boy to his feet. Mike stopped, turning to face them for the first time. There were only two of them, but they were tall, strapping young men only a little older than Peter and Mike, and much stronger looking. One, wearing a black cap over his greasy black hair, held Peter by the scruff of his collar and pressed a revolver to his head.  
"Okay, kid. Walk back here nice and easy with your hands up," he coaxed, in a rasping tenor. Then turning to his companion, a long haired blond, he said, softly. "Get the other kid."

Mike did as he was told, while Blondie went after Micky. The drummer was still running, either because he had not noticed what had happened or was simply too terrified to stop; Mike didn't know which, but he willed his friend to escape.

Micky glanced around him, and Mike saw his eyes grow wide as they settled on his two friends, and he began struggle in Greaseball's clutches, shouting all the while.

"Run, Micky! Get the cops! Don't stop-"

He was cut off mid-sentence when Greaseball brought the butt of his revolver down sharply on the back of his skull.

Peter watched Mike slump to the ground with a growing feeling of nauseous hopelessness. Glancing up, he saw Micky nearing the end of the street, the blond thug hot on his heels. The curly haired boy suddenly dashed around a corner, disappearing from sight. Within moments, Blondie had followed him.

A few moments later, the now familiar crack of a gunshot sounded. At that moment, all the emotion that had been growing within Peter burst in waves of frantic hysteria. The situation he was in proved too much for his nerves, and the boy found himself in tears, with a scream forming on his lips. First Mike, now Micky...Micky, who could be dead right now, or on his way there...

Blondie was coming down the street towards them now, looking very self-satisfied, and Peter felt something he could not recall ever having felt before. It came on him like a rush, the sudden, uncontrollable desire to cause pain to person who had done him and his friends so much harm. He supposed this was true anger; he was struggling like a madman, and barely noticed the piercing yells coming from his mouth.

Then suddenly, in an explosion of pain, bright stars burst before his eyes. Then darkness fell.

* * *

"We have to do something!"

Detective Oliver Carstairs rubbed a hand down his face, willing himself to keep hold of his fast mounting temper. Why couldn't this kid understand what he'd been going over for so long? If he'd said it once he'd said it a thousand times - they didn't have enough evidence to go on yet. Until the police could get some sort of lead - what had happened, where the boys were, etcetera, the only thing they actually knew was that it had _probably_ been the work of the gang that two of the missing boys, Michael Nesmith and Peter Tork, had encountered two weeks before. And even that had not been proved. He looked up at the kid, who was standing in front of his desk and looking caught between terrible worry and fierce anger.

"Listen, son, I want to help your friends. But until I know a few more details, I can't - "

"What do you mean, you can't?" The kid practically yelled, and Carstairs vaguely noted that his English accent was thickening. "You're the cops, aren't you? It's your job!"

"Yes, but until we can get some more concrete leads, we are unable-"

The kid cut him off again. "I don't care! If you can't help now, I'll find them myself. And if they've been hurt, I'll kill those bastards myself!" With that, the kid threw Carstairs a scathing look and made for the door. He was brought to a halt by the detective's large hand on his shoulder.

"I've got my men searching the city for your friends. That's the best I can do. You're not going anywhere, son."

"Oh? And I suppose you're going to stop me?" came the rebellious reply.

"You're forgetting, Mr Jones. I'm a cop." The kid still looked murderous. The detective decoded to try a different tack. "Listen, David, you care about your friends a lot, don't you?"

The question, along with the use of his first name, seemed to catch the boy off guard. He dropped his gaze ever so slightly and nodded.

"Then they probably feel the same about you. In that case, they'll thank me for what I'm about to do."

A few minutes later, Oliver Carstairs had settled back down in his chair, and attempted to block out the loud English obscenities echoing from the cell in which David Jones had just been locked.

* * *

The first thing Mike was aware of was the pounding ache that filled every corner of his slowly returning consciousness. He tried to move his hands but found them tightly bound in front of him. Within a few minutes, he was able to crack open his eyes just a little, and noted that he was sitting in the back of a small, rather smelly car. He was in the middle seat; on his right Peter was slumped, whether sleeping or unconscious Mike did not know, and on his left, a vaguely familiar young man with greasy black hair was playing idly with a revolver. Mike groaned, remembering suddenly everything that had led up to the moment he had received the now throbbing bump on his forehead.

Then he realised with a surge of hope that Micky was not there. He must have got away! Mike whispered a silent prayer that his friend would be alright. Thinking of Micky gradually led his thoughts on to Davy. _The poor kid must be worried sick_, Mike thought, with a stab of pity. _I know I would be._

In the front, the driver of the car was yelling profanities at the young blond man beside him, calling him an idiot and other worse things for goofing over something Mike was too tired and sick-feeling to understand. But apparently the blond had done something which went directly against the orders the boss had issued - something about not causing too much of a disturbance and such.

Beside him, Peter let out a small moan and began to stir. On Mike's other side, Greaseball let out a humourless chuckle.

"You two woke up just in time. We're just pulling up. Oh- and you're going to need these." He placed a blindfold over Mike's eyes, tying it much too tight. Then leaning over the boy, he did the same to Peter.

Presently the car braked to a halt, and within moments Mike found himself being dragged out of the car. Then he and Peter were led for what felt like hours through corridors, and up and down stairs, until finally the blindfolds were removed, and both boys found themselves standing in a small room.

*The accommodation could have been worse,* Mike thought dryly. A small bed sat in each of the far corners, complete with a blanket and a pillow each. A dirty sink sat against the wall by the foot of one of the beds, by a swinging door that looked as if it led to a bathroom.

"Well the room is nice, but the service is lousy," Mike commented, then wished he hadn't as Greaseball's hand connected with the sore spot on the back of his head. Then the rope tying his hands together was cut, and he was roughly shoved forward. Beside him, Peter was undergoing similar treatment. Then the door slammed and locked, and the two boys were left alone.

Mike's first course of action was to help Peter, who seemed barely cognitive, to one of the beds. Once the sandy haired boy was lying as comfortably as possible, Mike settled down on the other bed. He was just beginning to close his eyes, and dreading the killer headache he'd no doubt have when he woke up, when Peter spoke.

"Michael?"

"I'm here, Peter."

"Where are we?"

"I don't know, man."

"Oh." Peter seemed to be struggling with something. "Mike, Micky...he..."

"He got away," Mike reassured him, gently.

"No..."

"What?" Mike was suddenly gripped by fear once again. "Peter, what happened?"

Peter was fighting to remember something. He knew something had happened, something bad, but he didn't know what. "I don't know, Michael. But I think he might be...might be..."

"Might be what?" Mike asked, trying to stifle the panic slowly rising in his throat. What had Peter seen? What did he know that Mike didn't?

Peter was now sobbing. He wasn't really sure why he felt like he did, for he couldn't really remember what had happened. He only felt a strong conviction that something terrible had happened to his younger friend, something irreparable...

He only managed to choke out one word through his tears of pain and fear, but that word was enough to make Mike's blood run cold.

"Dead."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Now might be a good time to state "my" Monkees' ages. I go with a variation of my first impression, ans it has no real bearing on their actual ones.  
Mike and Peter are both twenty-one, like Mike said in that one episode, Micky is nineteen, and Davy is eighteen. I have my reasons, though they're too long and lengthy to go into now.**

* * *

"Dead?" Mike exclaimed, horrified and incredulous. "Peter, are you sure?"

"I don't know," the other boy said, miserably. "Everything is coming back so...so foggy, it's hard to know anything for sure. But I do remember seeing two go into the alley, and only one come out, and that one wasn't Micky. Why would the other guy leave him if he was still alive? I don't want to believe it, but I don't see how I _can't_."

Mike got up from his own bed and sat down on Peter's, drawing his friend into a hug, while searching for words to give comfort and hope to both of them. "Hey, buddy, don't worry, okay? Micky is alive and fine."

"How, Michael? How do you know that?"

"Well, for one thing," began Mike. "For one thing, he's a Monkee. Look at all the times we've been in danger, and we've always made it out okay. Besides, I think I would feel something if Mick were really... gone, y'know. Maybe it's just a crazy, deluded fantasy, but what I'm trying to say is that we gotta keep our hopes up. I, for one, am not going to believe anything until I see proof of it in front of my eyes, and I don't think you should, either."

"Thank you, Michael."

If Mike doubted any of the words he spoke, it didn't matter when he saw how comforted Peter looked. As the taller boy looked at his friend, he even caught the glimmer of a smile. Within minutes, both boys were drifting off.

Mike never bothered going back to his own bed, choosing instead to curl up at the foot of Peter's.

He slept better that way, anyway.

* * *

Officer Marcus Ridley sighed softly to himself as he cruised slowly down the darkened street, the glaring headlights of his car lighting his way. So much for going home tonight. From the looks of things he wouldn't enjoy the comfort of his own bed for another twelve hours, at least. Oh well. Some days were like that. You could not expect nice, regular hours working in the Police Department.

He, like the rest of the officers on duty, had been given a description of each of the three missing boys and detailed to a certain area of town. Figures he'd get the slummy area, though. He really hated being one of the juniors in the force. In that position you always seem to get lumped with the nastier work.

The two-way radio beside him in the car beeped loudly, and the voice that buzzed through the static was calling him. Ridley quickly pulled it to his mouth and answered. The voice buzzed through the speaker to him once again.

*Civilian witness states hearing gunfire coming from your sector. Search thoroughly. Over.*

"Roger and out," the officer replied, and the connection was dropped. Looking around him, Ridley saw that he'd pulled into a large street lined with darkened alleyways. That would mean getting out of the car and searching each one. With another sigh of resignation, the policeman grabbed his high-power flashlight and climbed out of the car.

The first thing he noted was the dilapidated state of the concrete. *The city should really fix this up,* he thought, idly, as he began his methodical search of the street and alleys.

Finally, he had searched all but one, and found nothing. Coming to the last alley, he hardly supposed that his luck would change. Shining his flashlight down the narrow strip of road, he let out a small involuntary gasp.

A body lay crumpled in the alley, face downwards.

Ridley broke into a run. When he reached the body, he turned it over, and saw it was a very young man - no more than nineteen or twenty. The policemen stifled a sharp intake of breath as he saw that one side of the boy's face was crusted with dried rivulets of dark blood. For a brief and horrific moment, Ridley wondered if the kid was even alive as he placed two fingers against his neck, checking for a heartbeat. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt one - a slow but steady pumping of life through the veins. It was only then that the police officer remembered to check the boy's identification. A wallet protruded from the back pocket of his jeans, and pulling it out, Ridley found his driver's license, identifying him as George Michael Dolenz - one of the missing boys.

The police officer fumbled at his belt for the walkie-talkie clipped there. Within moments, he had contacted HQ, telling them of his find, and to bring the paramedics.

* * *

Davy sat gloomily in his cell, massaging his sore throat. He'd been yelling every insult or profanity he could ever remember hearing for the last two hours, trying to get his message across, but to no avail. No one came to let him out or even give him some sort of news. Aside from one snoring drunk in the adjacent cell, the only person he had seen since being locked up was Carstairs, who had taken five minutes to bring him a cup of coffee, a blanket, and a pillow - in case he decided to shut up and sleep, the detective said.

But Davy couldn't sleep. Not without at least knowing where his friends were, or what had happened, or if - but he wouldn't think about *that* possibility. It was not as though he didn't trust the ability of the police to do their best, but he wished he didn't feel so helpless. If only he had been allowed to go out and look, too! Stupid Detective Carstairs! Stupid Police and their stupid rules and stupid "safety measures"! He could take care of himself! He was eighteen years old, after all, and-

His mental rant was cut short by the appearance of Carstairs, accompanied by an officer, at his cell door. Davy stood up, hopeful that some information was at last available to him.

"News?" Davy asked, and his voice cracked as he spoke. Carstairs grimaced.

"I see all that noise making has finally caught up with your voice. Yes, I have some news - good and bad."

"Give me the bad news first."

"Okay. It appears that Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork have indeed been kidnapped, most likely by that gang - almost certainly, as there aren't any other suspects. Micky Dolenz was caught by gunfire just off 48th Avenue." Seeing the boy's face filling with simultaneous grief and fear, the detective hurried to add. "But the good news is he's very much alive. According to our forensics team, the bullet fired at him ricocheted off a cement wall near him. A small piece of stone chipped from the wall grazed his head, just above the temple. Wounds like that bleed quite a bit, and the great amount of blood coupled with the dark could cause a man in a hurry to believe his victim was dead, or dying. The assailant probably thought your friend had been hit by the actual bullet, and if so, due to the irregular shape the ricochet would cause, such a wound would be fatal.

However, from a mild concussion and a nasty cut underneath his hairline, you friend is perfectly fine. When I last checked with the hospital he was showing every sign of coming round."

"When do I get to go see him?" Davy begged impatiently, anxious for his friend.

"Now, if you like. But I must insist that one of my men accompany you. I can't risk your going crazy and trying to run off after a bunch of dangerous criminals." At that, the English boy scoffed.

"You're treating me like one of them!"

"It's only for your own safety."

"Well I think it's bloody ridiculous."

Carstairs sighed. "I didn't ask you what you thought. One of my men goes with you or you don't go at all."

Davy, though not at all pleased, had to agree. He maintained a sullen, tense silence all the way to the hospital, though the officer he was saddled with attempted to make small conversation with him. When they reached their destination, he persisted in this attitude, only finally speaking when they reached the front desk to ask after Micky.

The officer accompanying Davy was not permitted, for the sake of the other patients, to accompany his temporary charge. However, he agreed to sit in the waiting room until either Davy emerged or he received other orders.

The nurse who led the English boy to his friend's ward, a large woman, was a chatty sort of person. Albeit this trait was slightly mollified by the fact that she was working the tail end of the night shift (it being now between two and three A.M.), but nevertheless she gave Davy a lengthy rundown on Micky's condition. The boy listened with half an ear, more concerned about actually seeing his friend than hearing a repeat of what he had already been told.

Finally they reached the door the curtained-off section that hid Micky's bed, and after the nurse had shown Davy in and announced his presence, she had the decency and forethought to leave the two alone.

For a moment, all Davy could do was stand in utter silence, which Micky, sitting up in bed and looking very awake (if a little worse for wear) eventually broke.

"Hiya, Davy."

"Oh thank God," was all Davy said as he broke and rushed over to Micky's bed, causing the other boy to laugh out loud, then wince as the laughter bothered his already aching head. "It's not that funny, Micky!" Davy scolded. "I was worried sick! I still am!"

"Sorry, babe. It's just your face. It got me thinking of the time when your grandfather tried to take you back home and to stop him Peter dressed up in that ridiculous Icarus outfit," Micky said, shaking his head and giggling, and Davy, tickled by the memory, chuckled too. Then both suddenly sobered.

"The gang got Mike and Pete," Micky said, sombrely.

Davy nodded. "As far as we know, though, they're alright - for now." Micky grimaced as the full impact of that statement sunk in. Davy went on. "But at least you're okay. You have no idea how I felt when they mentioned you were caught in gunfire. For a moment I thought...thought..."

"I guess I'm just really, really lucky." Micky cut him off so as to curb the tears that Davy was showing every sign of producing. "Apparently the bullet didn't even hit me...just a piece of chipped cement. Aside from a headache that'll last awhile, I'll be fine. The doctor says I can leave tomorrow."

"Well that's good news. Maybe you can convince Detective Carstairs to bung my police escort." Davy said, half hopeful, half bitter.

"Your _what_?!" Micky exclaimed. "Why on earth do you have a police escort, Dave?"

"When you guys were missing I threatened to go out and look for you. Apparently that would have messed up police plans, 'cos the detective decided to lock me up until you were found and brought to hospital."

"Well if that isn't the silliest thing I've ever heard," Micky said, clearly annoyed.

"Oh well," replied Davy, shrugging. "It doesn't really matter." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, then drew them out again in surprise. In one he held a pack of Tums, in the other, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He showed them to Micky. "I picked these up earlier. Guess you don't need them anymore."

"Not for my stomach, no. I think whatever it was cleaned out of my system a while ago. But keep them. We might be able to use them for something later."

"It's odd to think that was the last time I talked to Peter. And Mike - last time I talked to him it was to hand over my chores. I can't help wishing I'd hung around to do those dishes -"

"Don't think about that, Davy," Micky said, gently. "It will turn out okay in the end. But it's late. You look like you could use some sleep."

"Speak for yourself," Davy mumbled, but Micky ignored him.

"When I'm discharged tomorrow we'll head over to the police station and sort out the escort thing. Who knows, maybe we can convince the cops to let us help. But let's get some sleep first, okay?"


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Chapter is a little short, but please enjoy! Thanks for all the lovely reviews!_

* * *

"Okay, punks. Wake up!"

Mike was shocked into awareness by a rough shake. He found himself staring wide-eyed into the smirking face of Greaseball, his heartbeat accelerating madly from the rudely surprising awakening. Groaning as all the aches and pains he had merited in the last twenty four hours came rushing back with a vengeance, Mike eased himself into a sitting position on the end of Peter's bed.

Peter was also waking up. The sandy haired boy was having a little harder job of it, and his headache throbbed so strongly it took he a few seconds just to be able to open his eyes. Mike looked on in concern, diagnosing him with a very probable concussion. The Texan boy decided to see if some Aspirin were available as soon as possible.

There was no chance to ask now, however. No sooner had the boys' feet touched the cold floor than the Greaseball and his companion began to urge them none to gently to get a move on.

Mike and Peter were going to meet the Big Boss.

They were not bound or blindfolded this time. Rather, Greaseball led the way while his companion walked behind them, a gun trained on their backs. Up two flights of rickety, bare-board steps, around a corner, and through a corridor they went until they finally arrived at a small wooden door, upon which Greaseball knocked, tentatively.

A few moments later, it swung open, and Blondie shuffled out, his face burning with anger and humiliation. A voice called for them to come in, which they did.

Peter was surprised at the well-kept look of the office as he entered; the rest of the place (or what he had seen of it) looked like a permanent construction site. The walls were painted, and one even sported a large picture. The floor was carpeted. At a heavy wooden desk at the far side of the room sat a thin, balding middle-aged man lighting up a cigarette. Without looking up at them, he chuckled.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Michael Blessing."

* * *

Micky and Davy awoke at around noon, and after the doctor had checked Micky over, he said that the boy was well enough to leave on the condition that he get plenty of rest and regular meals and such. Davy paid at the desk, and the two left with an officer Detective Carstairs had sent to pick them up. All ran perfectly smoothly until they reached the police station.

Where they met with difficulty in the form of Detective Carstairs.

"What the bloody hell do you mean, you won't remove it?" Davy yelled, furiously, bringing a balled fist down on the detective's desk.

"Mr Jones, I am going to have to ask you to lower your voice!" Carstairs replied harshly, standing up and walking around the desk to stand toe-to-toe with the much shorter Englishman. Davy threw him a scorching glare, but complied, though every syllable dripped with venom.

"I could understand your reasoning for the escort before, but to continue it would be ridiculous. You-"

"I have no intention of making one of my men escort you everywhere," the detective broke in. "Even I have no right to misuse my subordinates in that way. However, I would like to place you and your friend under police supervision, if only until the time your other two friends are found."

"Oh, and I suppose you haven't got a single clue as to that yet! Which is precisely why Micky and I want to help!"?

"And you are once again proving how much you are in need of police interference!"

"Oh, is that so..."

Davy's voice began to rise again. Micky had been listening faithfully to the entire exchange; however, he refrained from joining in as something on the detective's desk caught his eye. A large Ziploc bag sat on the desk, containing a few odds and ends and labelled as evidence from the scene where he was found. But it was not so much the bag or evidence itself, as two small items which caught his attention. A pair of hand rolled cigarettes, a little squashed and dirty looking, sat docilely among the other bits of gravel and such collected from the scene.

Taking advantage of the detective's distraction, Micky gingerly reached a hand into the bag, careful not to touch anything but what he was aiming for, and snatched one of the cigarettes, which he slipped into the pockets of his jeans. Then he leapt into the fray, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"Detective Carstairs is right," he said meekly, though still loud enough to be heard above the din. "Davy, we're gonna have to listen and keep ourselves out of trouble."

Davy turned him, stunned into silence. Micky, giving up like this? Why? The curly haired boy went on.

"There's nothing more we can do, and we should let the police handle it. They have more experience anyway. Besides, I need to rest because of my concussion and I'll need you around to help me, Davy."

At that point, the English boy realised what his friend was up to. Micky was not _that _severely concussed, and even if he were he would _never _say something as helpless sounding as that. Communicating that he understood with a very faint nod, he assumed a mask of contrite humility.

"I'm sorry, Micky. I forgot you weren't well."

"Detective," Micky said, turning to face Carstairs, who seemed caught between amusement and shock at Davy's sudden change. "I promise to not do anything thoughtless and to not let Davy out of my sight. There's no need for a police escort; I know when we're not needed to help. Now if you could take us back to our pad, we'd be very grateful." Carstairs looked gratefully pleased.

"Now that's what I like - a responsible young man. Come on, son, I'll take you boys home."

Micky and Davy kept up the charade right up until the point Carstairs dropped them at their doorstep. The yellow tape from the night before had been cleared away. The door still had a couple scratches and dents from where the gangsters had tried to force it. When they opened it, however, a completely different sight met their eyes.

The barricade had been cleared from the door, but the room was still in disarray. Everything that had been placed in front of the door had been piled in the middle of the room. They would have a lot of cleaning on their hands. They set to without a word, only beginning to converse once they had worked themselves into a rhythm.

"Thanks for bailing me out of that, Micky," said Davy, grinning at his friend. "Fancy bit of work there."

"Oh, that's not everything," Micky grinned back at him. "I also managed to get this." He then produced the stolen cigarette. Davy looked shocked.

"Micky! That's police evidence!"

"So! I left them the other one! Besides, you want to help Mike and Pete, don't you?"

"I take it that means you have some sort of plan? And what about all those promises you made to our friend the detective?"

"I won't be breaking them," Micky said, proudly. "I said I wouldn't do anything thoughtless - we'll make a plan first. I said I wouldn't let you out of my sight - my sight is going right along with you. We know when we're not needed - but Mike and Peter need us."

Davy looked at him in awe. "And to think I wasted all that time shouting and getting angry. I'm sorry, Micky."

"Don't be," Micky said, dismissively waving a hand. "If you hadn't distracted Carstairs so well, it wouldn't have been possible."

"Thanks," Davy beamed, tough he still felt a little stupid. "So what's so special about the cigarette?"

"Well, for one thing, it's hand-rolled," Micky explained. "And we're also really lucky for another reason. Let's go to the table and I'll show you."

Dropping their tasks, both boys made their way to the kitchen table. Micky carefully unrolled the cigarette, collecting the tobacco into his hand and holding it out to Davy.

"Smell."

Davy took a sniff, and wrinkled his nose in surprise. "It smells like...cherries...and chocolate!" he exclaimed after a moment.

"Exactly," Micky said. "Expensive novelty stuff. The guys who were chasing us weren't that rich. Now there's only one place you can get stuff like that for cheap, I know because my Dad was a smoker and I grew up around here."

"Oh, yeah? Where?" Davy inquired, curiously.

"It's called Maverick's, and its down near the industrial waterfront area, sort of the same place those first two thugs were arrested. The guy who owns it never realised how high class his stuff was or he would have moved by now."

"So we start around there? Isn't it possible that the guy could have purposely gone to the place for his tobacco?"

"Yes," Micky agreed. "But we can always ask around that area. Anyway, there's another clue, here on the paper."

Handing it to Davy, the English boy saw a word hastily scribbled along the top - a name. "Benson," Davy read. "So that's the guy's name?"

"His or an acquaintance of his," replied Micky.

"Say, man, what if the detective realises this is missing?"

"He won't." Micky said confidently, prompting a set of raised eyebrows from Davy. Micky explained. "He'd only just begun to count the stuff - I saw the list on his desk. It seems luck was on our side, and he hadn't reached the cigarettes."

"Yeah," said Davy, pensively. "Listen, Micky, we should finish cleaning up before we do anything else. We can plan tonight."

"Right," replied the curly- haired boy, willingly. He nodded sharply, then winced as the pain from the blow he'd received came rushing back to his head. His reaction did not escape Davy's notice.

"I'll finish up, if you go upstairs and get some rest. You _do _have a concussion, Micky. And you're going to need your wits and your strength at their best for what we're going to do."

Micky nodded gratefully, and went upstairs to his bed for a nap while Davy finished the cleaning. Comfortably ensconced in the covers, he slept and dreamed of his missing friends.


	6. Chapter 6

Micky woke from his nap a few hours later feeling much better. His head was no longer in pain, and both mind and body felt spry and aware and ready for active use. Getting out of bed and making his way downstairs, he found Davy at the stove stirring a pot of something that smelled rather good.

Micky grinned. "I didn't know you could cook," he teased.

"Oh, hi" the English boy said, with a chuckle. "it's vegetable soup, and it's one of the few things I can make well. Figures you'd come down just when it's ready, though. Good to see the concussion didn't mess with your sixth sense."

"Ah, shuddup, short stuff," Micky said, though he was still grinning. "And give me some of that."

Davy doled out two bowls of the steaming, chunky food and the boys fell to with a will. As the ate, they discussed plans.

"I say tomorrow we head down to Maverick's tobacco place to get out bearings," said Micky, between spoonfuls of soup. "Say, Dave, this is pretty good."

"Thanks," replied Davy with a nod. "But what will we do when we find the gang? I mean, we can't just walk up to a gangster and say 'hey, big guy, give us back our mates' or anything like that."

"No," Micky agreed. "Which is why we're going to infiltrate the gang and work from the inside out." Utter silence greeted this statement, broken only by the sound of Davy spoon clattering down into his bowl as Micky calmly went back to eating his soup, ignoring his English friend's wide-eyed stare.

"You," said Davy, slowly. "Have gone crackers. That or you've been watching too much TV. You know how hard that will be? They'll probably recognise at least you, if not both of us. And you know what happens if we're caught?"

"Well, I'm trying not to think of that part," Micky admitted. "As for being recognised, we'll wear disguises. I'll make myself look real rough and tough, and much older, and you can do the same."

Davy looked over doubtful at that idea. Micky, unperturbed, continued, an almost dreamy look in his eyes as he imagined his role.

"I'll be Mitch Dillon, thirty years old, raised my own kid brother - that's you, Davy - by hand on the streets of LA. Desperate for the necessities of life, he comes looking for a place in one of California's most notorious gangs -"

"Uh, Micky?" Davy interrupted his friend's fantasy, drawing him back sharply to the real world. "There's a slight problem with that, and it starts with Manchester, England. No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to sound like your street-raised kid brother. Not all of us are natural mimics."

"Oh, that's not the hard part," Micky scoffed. "You can be too dumb to talk and I'll call you Shrimp. No, the hard part will be making you look tough."

Davy scowled. This plan of action was going to be quite unpleasant for his pride, he could already see. He steeled himself, and uttered a silent prayer that they would rescue the others soon.

* * *

"Blessing?!" Peter gasped, confused and a little bit scared. "But that's not his name!"

"No," the Big Boss said, turning to Mike. "I hear he's going by another name. Nesselschmidt, right?

"Nes - _mith_." Each syllable grated angrily as it was forced through his clenched teeth.

"Whatever," the Boss said, dismissively waving a hand. "You're still the same little jerk who robbed me of what coulda been a fortune, then sent me to jail to boot."

"Mike wouldn't steal," Peter said, immediately on the defensive. "Mike doesn't do things like that."

"Wanna bet?" The man asked, threateningly, and Peter fell silent, looking at Mike with a mixture of fear and confusion.

"S'okay, Peter," Mike said, and despite their present situation the hint of a smile could be seen on his face. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Fortunately for you that's the way the cops saw it," commented the Boss, lighting up a large cigar. "Say, why don't you get your buddy a chair, and tell him the story? It's not fair to keep all these jokes to ourselves." He chuckled at his own lame, slightly sadistic humour.

Peter looked more than a little confused - he looked downright perplexed, not to mention a little scared. And he was wincing slightly from his still pounding headache. He really a painkiller. Mike, despite not wanting to listen to the Boss in any way, saw the necessity of getting him a chair from the corner of the room. Only when the taller boy had made sure his friend was as comfortable as possible did he begin his story.

* * *

_Eighteen years old, hungry, homeless, and without a penny to call his own save the seventy three odd cents jingling in the pocket of his threadbare jacket, Robert Michael Nesmith wandered the streets of LA, silently cursing the father he had never even met. Barely seven months out of high school, and already displaced, all because of a stupid shared name._

_He had tried to leave it all behind, to run from the rumours and whispers that seemed to circulate around him whenever he mentioned his name. He had left his home town with this hope, and when that failed to work, he had kept on running, leaving all of Texas well behind, until he found himself now on the streets of LA, alone and fending for himself with nothing but his wits and his skill on the one object he had never considered pawning - Blonde Beauty, his beloved twelve string Gretsch._

_But try as he might, he could not outrun the spread of news. The rumours remained, but even worse, Robert Nesmith could not find anyone to hire him. Not that he could blame people; it was hardly good for a business to advertise an entertainer, no matter how skilled, when that entertainer shared a name with a notorious thief cum murderer cum all-around-creep._

_So from this point forward, he decided, he would no longer be known as Robert Nesmith. He was, for all intents and purposes, Michael Blessing. The Michael part was all very well, as he'd already decided a long time ago that he preferred his middle name. The Blessing part existed simply because it was the best name Mike, as he was now calling himself, could think of, and frankly, the irony of the whole situation tickled him._

_But the change had worked. It seemed to Mike to be a matter of hours afterwards that he finally found the long-awaited job. It was nothing very wonderful, but to a hungry teenage boy practically living on the street, it was a godsend._

_Now he stood in front of his new workplace, the "Brandon Street Bistro", surveying it with mixed emotions. He was extremely grateful to have a position here as a waiter and entertainer, but he had to admit the place looked a little seedy. However, he gritted his teeth, focusing on the thought of his first pay cheque._

_His new boss, Donny Kenneth (or Mr K, as he preferred to be called) was an outwardly friendly and generous man, if of a rather too oily personality for Mike's liking. He personally showed Mike around the restaurant and kitchen, acquainting the boy with everything he would need to know for his new job._

_The first couple weeks of work were not easy, but well worth it when Mike was finally able to move into a real apartment building. However cheap his new home was, it beat sleeping in a different motel every night. However, his luck did now last long, and the howling winds of misfortune, which Mike thought he had finally left behind, returned with a vengeance._

_Mike did not like trouble. He would purposely go miles out of his way to avoid it. But somehow or other, trouble always seemed to find him anyway._

_During a shift, one of the customers at a table of his asked to see the manager. So, Mike went to the back to get Mr K. When he reached the man's office, he knocked on the door, only to receive no answer. He knocked a second time, but with no better results than the first. Finally he gingerly pushed open the door, and, finding the office empty, crept in._

_He had never been in this office, but as an employee, he didn't think anything wrong with waiting for Mr K to come back. He could only be gone a couple minutes, after all, and the bistro wasn't particularly busy at the moment._

_He stood idly in the little room, his eyes casting lazily around him. He leaned over with mild curiosity to read what was scribbled on it. When he had read it, however, he stiffened, for the words ran as follows_:

Table 6. 6pm. Drop 5g to "Sandy_".  
_12/08/64

_Table 6 was one of his tables - the very one he had just come from. Glancing at his watch, Mike noted it was 5:58 pm, and the date also corresponded. "Sandy" therefore must be the man who'd asked to see the manager. Which left Mike only guessing at what the "5 grams" part could mean. Whatever it was, Mike was almost absolutely sure it couldn't be legal. What was measured in grams at a restaurant? No, it most certainly had to be drugs of some kind._

_He reported his suspicions to the cops a couple days later, and a search conducted the following week turned up much evidence on something the cops had already suspected - Mr K was running a drug deal out of his crummy bistro._

_Mike was out of a job, but the money he received as a reward was enough to keep him going until he found another._

_The last the Texan had seen of his old boss, the cops were dragging Mr K into the back of the police van, while the criminal all the while screamed dire threats and insults at the boy who had been his downfall._

* * *

As Mike now looked at his old boss, he heard again every single word that had been screamed that day. But Mr K's face was no longer a contorted mess of fury, but a cruel and calm countenance, bearing a cold, bitter smile.

"You halted my progress in the crime world well," said the Boss, still puffing on his cigar. "But you never ended it. I broke out of the clink and restarted. I married the sister of one of California's biggest crime leaders, and then together we got rid of him." Both Mike and Peter shuddered at the casual way the man spoke of murder. "But then my wife got jealous. She tried to kill me, and damn near did. Two bullets to the chest, one punctured lung. But I hung on, thanks to my own will to live and a couple of crooked doctors not above bribery. Then she got caught by the cops. It was then that I crossed paths with you again, Michael, though neither of us knew it. But you'll be glad of it now, because it's the reason I'm gonna let you live a little longer. You got rid of my wife for me."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Mike said, honestly.

"'K' doesn't stand for Kenneth," said Mr K with an air of one who is about to tell a tremendous and terribly amusing secret. "'K' is for Kowalski."

Kowalski. Bessie Kowalski. The Big Woman.

Peter, though sometimes a little slow on the uptake, also apparently understood, for he gasped softly.

"So you're not gonna kill us?" He said, hopefully.

"I'm not, no," replied Mr K with a chuckle. "But I'm saving the pleasure for someone who wants it more, and he won't be here for another week. I owe it to him after everything he's done for me in the past few months."

Peter's crestfallen expression vanished momentarily as he and Mike both looked up at Mr K, curious and a little nervous of the answer.

"You'll remember him, when you see him," said the Boss. "You knew him as George."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: So we say good-bye to Peter and Mike for a while, but fear not, good and faithful readers, we shall see them again soon. A huge, huge thankyou to anyone who has read and reviewed this humble submission of mine. You are what makes this worth it!_

_Incidentally, I lied. By accident, but a lie nonetheless. I do have two Monkees which I tend to favour (though not so much in fic writing) more than the others. Can you guess who they are? But I'm pretty sure the answer doesn't really appear in this fic...I hope it doesn't! _

_Happy reading!_

* * *

Micky Dolenz was notorious among his small group of friends for his crazy schemes, and even more so, for the uncanny way in which most of them seemed to work. The drummer had always had a flair for the ridiculous, and that tendency had been the catalyst in pulling the Monkees out of many a difficult situation. In his first few months of knowing Micky, these plans had caused Davy no end of worry, but the English boy had come to trust his friend much more since those days.

But this, Micky's newest plan seemed so much more crazy than usual – not because it involved any really strange means, but because it had, in Davy's mind, so little chance of success. There were just too many things that could go wrong.

They had stolen police evidence. They were planning to march straight into what could potentially be a death-trap, despite being expressly ordered by the police to stay out of trouble. They had no real idea of where they were going, or who and what they were up against. Their plan was almost doomed to failure.

"Impersonate thugs, join a bloody gang. Absolute suicide." he muttered softly to himself, letting the hot water pouring from the shower head run in rivulets down his exhausted face. He had only caught about four hours of sleep last night, and the night before had been even worse. Micky had hardly fared better; he slept more, due to his concussion, but his mood when the boys were not planning was unusually quiet and pensive. When planning was in progress, however, the curly haired boy regained his old rambunctious vigour.

But worry was taking its toll on both of them. Davy could see the frown lines beginning to form on Micky's face from the almost constant working of his mind, and the drummer hadn't shaved since the morning before everything had gone wrong. Every time the English boy looked at his own face in the mirror he could see the dark circles under his eyes just a little clearer. It had only been a couple days since Mike and Peter had been kidnapped, but they had heard absolutely nothing from the police. Davy knew that, for both their sakes, he and Micky had to act as soon as possible. The idea of sitting around in the pad while their two best friends were facing God-knows-what was abhorrent to both of them.

Suddenly Davy heard a knock on the bathroom door, and Micky's voice call through the door to him. "Davy, babe, you almost done in there? I need to get in there."

"Give me a moment," Davy called back. "Just gotta dry off."

He went about finishing up as quickly as he could, and when he came put, he looked and felt cleaner and better than he had in a while. Micky looked him over with a mischievous grin that made Davy feel rather uneasy. When he asked Micky what he was thinking, the drummer merely shook his head.

"Nothing, man," he said with a chuckle. "Just don't get to used to feeling clean. Oh, and go and eat something downstairs. Big day ahead!"

With that, he practically skipped past Davy and into the bathroom, leaving his shorter friend staring at the door he had just closed behind him.

Davy slouched over to the kitchen, where he poured himself a small bowl of the cereal Micky had left out. The milk had gone bad; however, there was a little orange juice left, and so Davy decided to tear a page from Micky's book and pour that on his cereal. It was not so bad, he thought, as he ate it and waited for Micky to come out of the bathroom.

Almost half an hour later, Micky had still not emerged. Davy had called multiple times to his friend to make sure everything was alright, but whatever the curly-haired boy was up to was taking a long time. Davy had washed up the bowls and was lounging on the fainting couch with a magazine when the Micky emerged.

"Well, I'm glad you finally decided to grace the room with-" he began, then stopped, looking at Micky in shock. "What on earth happened in there?"

"You like it?" Micky replied proudly. "Meet Mitch Dillon."

Davy could only stare. Micky had always been good with disguises, but he had really outdone himself this time. His wild curls had been smoothed using grease into a dirty looking ponytail. He had applied a small amount of stage makeup to his face with the touch of an artist, adding just about a decade of lines. Now Davy realised that Micky's neglect in daily shaving had not merely been from forgetfulness and worry, but a premeditated act. The infant beard, no more than a light shadow, was just enough to give him an unkempt, scruffy look, aided by the dirt he had rubbed into it. But the real change was not in any physical appearance, but in the very way he carried himself. Within minutes he had gone from an eager boy of nineteen to a scowling, mean looking man of at least thirty, hardened by years of living on the streets. And it was this change, more than any material disguise, which made him almost unrecognisable.

"Wow," Davy breathed, incapable of saying anything else for the moment, and Micky strutted. A moment later, however, he dropped his well-earned pride and marched over to his English friend, seizing him by the shoulders and steering him in the direction of the bathroom.

"Your turn, babe," he said, almost bursting with excitement.

"Oh, no, Micky, please," Davy pleaded, almost desperately. "I just washed."

"Aw, c'mon, short stuff, be a man. No pain, no gain."

Davy hesitated a moment longer, but finally let out a sigh of resignation and marched with Micky into the bathroom.

Micky found it a little harder to give Davy the transformation he had worked in himself. For one thing, the younger boy couldn't grow any sort of beard, not even a shadow, to save his life. And the childlike features were also an issue. It had been hard enough with himself, for trying to make any skinny boy in his late teens look like a hardened thug of thirty was no easy task; however, a little make-up and a studied facial expression had made it unnoticeable to anyone who did not study his face deeply and for quite some time. Finally, Micky decided to go for the what he called the "rough, grubby, street kid look" by giving him a scar and giving his hair a messy tousled look using some of the grease he'd used in his own hair. Then he covered patches of Davy's face with dirt, and rubbed the rest beneath his fingernails, all the while humming like an artist working on the high of sudden inspiration. Davy scowled into the mirror during the entire process, but Micky only grinned harder, saying it completed the look.

Needless to say Davy was far from pleased. However, he did understand the reasons behind his forged identity, and was willing to put up with it for the sake of their friends. In the space of around forty minutes, Davy stood in front of the mirror, regarding his new face with mixed emotions. Part of him admired the change Micky had managed to work in his face, but the other part of him, the small, slightly vain part, missed his old good looks.

Oh well. All for a good cause - the best of causes.

Then suddenly he realised something, and inwardly scolded himself for not thinking of it before.

"Micky, what about clothes? We can't wear our regular stuff!"

Micky, however, didn't miss a beat. "All taken care of, m'boy, all taken care of! Mike's got an old pair of jeans buried in his bottom drawer which'll just look bad enough on you. He never wears them and anyway he wouldn't care if we destroy them considering the circumstances. And I have a really old pair of beat-up sneakers you can borrow, and a pair of gumboots for myself."

"Yeah, that's great," said, Davy, pressingly. "But that's only one pair of pants, and the shoes. What about everything else we need? We don't really have any clothes that would work. Maybe one old tee, but the rest-"

The smaller boy stopped, realising his friend was no longer looking at him, but past him out the small bathroom window. His face wore an expression of thoughtful mischief, and Davy, nervous, turned and followed Micky's gaze. What he saw made him blanch in horror.

"No way, man," he said, shaking his head. "I mean stealing police evidence is bad enough, but this..."

The object of Micky's attention was Mr. Babbitt's laundry, waving gently in the soft sea breeze where it hung on the man's porch, just adjacent to their own pad. The cranky landlord had just returned from his trip to New York, and apparently had forgotten to do his laundry before leaving. On the clothesline hung at least thirty articles of clothing, including one battered, oversized white T-shirt and another equally worn collared shirt of a blue-grey cotton, as well as a holey pair of jeans. Mr Babbitt's brother had a very large garden or something, Micky guessed, and their landlord had probably spent time working in it. But the items he had set his mind on were perfect for his and Davy's purpose. Behind him, Davy was still moaning.

"Micky, we can't just go around stealing people's laundry! Haven't we done enough? How about we just head down to the clothing bank and pick some stuff up there?"

"Because if we go there dressed in the clothes *we* own, their would be too many questions asked. And we can't afford word getting around like that."

"I dig," Davy nodded. "But can't we rob someone else?"

"You scared, babe?" Micky said slyly, knowing that if he wanted the Englishman to do anything, the way to accomplish that was to suggest he was afraid of it. Being short had developed a fierce pride in Davy that compelled him to show as little weakness as possible. And though being one of the Monkees had mellowed this trait considerably, for he knew his friends would not care two figs if he was the worlds biggest scaredy-cat cum cry-baby, he still retained a little of it for cases such as these. Micky's tactic worked, for within seconds Davy had thrown his customary caution to the winds.

"Of course not," he replied, hotly. "If we've gotta rob Babbitt, let's go ahead and rob him! But let's pay him back, sometime, okay? As much as he's a mean old bloodsucker, I don't like to steal and run."

"Well, "steal-and-run" is the usual way to do it, but I know how you feel. You think fifteen'll pay for that outfit? A bit much just for those old clothes, but we are taking them right off his clothesline. Anyway, that way he won't go to the police, because they probably will want to take the money to analyze and he won't want that." Micky said the last almost to himself. Then he looked up at Davy in sudden surprise. "Say Davy, just so as he doesn't evict us afterwards or call that old crank Carstairs at the police station on us, is their anything we can cover our faces with? Nylon or something?"

"I dunno 'bout nylon, but their are a couple of old balaclava-things sitting in the back of mine and Peter's closet. I think the last tenants left them by mistake or something. They'd be perfect." With that, Davy dashed into the room he shared with Peter. In a few moments, he returned excitedly, clutching the ski masks in his hands, though his expression was a little troubled. "Well, maybe not *perfect*."

Micky snorted. The things Davy held were indeed balaclavas, but instead of the traditional black colouring, the knit fabric was dyed a brilliant neon orange. "Y'know I think we're gonna have to pay Babbitt some more, to pay the hospital bill for his heart attack after he sees two walking lighthouses running off with his laundry. You know what we should do to complete this..." Micky then suggested to his younger friend something that sent them both into a fit of giggles.

Drying tears of much needed laughter, the boys tried on the shockingly bright masks, which covered all but their eyes. Then while Davy sorted out the money to give to Mr Babbitt and set the Pad in order, Micky filled a backpack with everything he thought they would need, for once they left the Pad they could not return unless they had Mike and Peter with them, due as much to a personal vow as necessity.

* * *

Mr Henry Babbitt was lounging in his bedroom, relaxing after long flight and piles of laundry. He had made himself a coffee, picked up a good book and settled in his personal chair, a large leather one by the window with the view over the porch (attached to the room below) to the sea beyond.  
In the background quiet music- Mozart, not that horrible stuff those long haired, weirdo tenants of his played - was playing on his old record player.

Suddenly his peace was disturbed by a rustling from his porch. Thinking that it must be those pesky seagulls messing around again, he got up and went to the window to shoo them away verbally. At the window, however, he received the shock of his life.

It was not the seagulls. Two figures were sneaking through his washing lines. Babbitt supposed they were human, though they looked more like the space aliens on those dumb science fiction shows than any humans he had ever seen. Each was wrapped entirely in an old, billowy bed sheet, covering its whole body save for the head, which was covered by some sort of mask of a bright glowing orange that was almost painful to look at.

The two blundered madly around on his porch, until finally they came to the part of the clothesline on which hung the old clothes reserved for gardening and other such dirt-attracting recreation. The ridiculous creatures then seized these articles and made off with them, the sheets blooming out behind them like sails as they ran.

The whole scene was so bizarre it took Babbitt a full minute to realise that he was being robbed. When the man finally clicked, however, he was furious. How dare these -these *things* steal his laundry! Shouting loudly after the figures to stop, he charged down the stairs, through the living room, and out onto the porch with all the fury of a bull in the ring.

His efforts were in vain. By the time he reached the place the crime had been committed, the two things that were probably men here no more than two small, white shapes on the horizon, the bright orange of their heads now tiny dots no larger than the eye of a needle.

He sighed angrily and shook his head, and turned to go in. He'd hadn't walked a foot before his face collided with the tough wire of the clothesline, one of the wooden pegs catching him in the eye. Mr Babbitt opened his mouth to curse, but only felt further frustration as it filed with paper. Spitting madly, he saw a small piece of paper with two bills attached floating to the ground, which he bent to pick up, still clutching his wounded eye. When he straightened, he examined the paper closely, finding fifteen dollars attached with a note in typewritten font, which read:

_Dear Sir:_  
_The Society for the Protection of Primatal Persons, otherwise knows as S.P.P.P., thanks you for your kind gift and offers you this humble token of our undying appreciation._

_Sincerely,_

_G.M. Thomas, Secretary_


	8. Chapter 8

_I apologise for the delay in getting this chapter up. Blame it on a combination of writer's block, the temporary loss of half the chapter, and upcoming school exams. Sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!  
_

* * *

Willoughby H. Maverick, proprietor of the small tobacco shop on the corner of Seawall and Lancing, was, to say the least, a singular soul. Nearly seventy years old, he had been running his business since the tender age of sixteen, then under the guidance of his father, the shop's founder. It was estimated that in those decades over one thousand sounds of tobacco had passed over his wooden counter to be received by people of all backgrounds and social positions. Maverick tobacco was favoured by many rich and poor alike.

Often people would ask Mr Maverick why he did not move his store away from the slummy waterfront area and into the city's higher end. They asked why he did not charge higher prices for his tobacco, which was always on demand and none too easy to make. When faced with these inquiries, however, the old shopkeeper would merely shrug and say that he did fine the way he was, and if any of those snobby rich folk with their swanky ways wanted to buy something, they could get off their large posteriors and take their fancy-schmancy cars down here, but he certainly wasn't going to make the poorer souls walk all the way up to some high end part of town just for his smokes.

But the good of his needier customers came only secondary; Willoughby Maverick had an ulterior motive for remaining near the waterfront. In his lifetime he had built up a secondary business, which provided him with an income almost equal to that he made selling tobacco. So many different specimens of people passed over the dirty threshold, people from all walks of life, and all would drop a word or two to him as they did business. And Mr Maverick had a better memory than most. All those little words, collected and analysed, added up to make an invaluable set of information, and a large amount of this information concerned the local criminal organisations. Then he would sell this information to any of his customers willing to pay the price for it.

Some thought that he should fear this line of business: criminals, especially powerful ones, did not like being crossed, and those who meddled with their affairs could easily wind up dead. But Mr Maverick, when confronted with such a warning, would simply shrug it off. No one would ever risk killing him for mere revenge - not when he could give them as much information to him as that which he sold against him.

His reputation as a fountain of waterfront intelligence had spread across the city, as a result sending many flocking to him to learn something about someone else. There was only one kind of person he never sold *these* goods to - a policeman. And in his lifetime Willoughby Maverick had gained a special skills in deciphering the cops from the ordinary folks.

So, on one particular day, when two young men pushed open the door to his little store and wanted to talk with him, he was not surprised. They looked a little unkempt, and rather hungry, too, their eyes filled with a curious look of desperation they attempted to disguise.

The elder one was a tallish fellow, late twenties, Maverick guessed. He had a greasy, unkind look about him and he talked in a low, rasping tenor. He began inquiries about local activity almost immediately, and the old tobacconist would have suspected him of being a cop, had it not been for his companion. The other man hardly merited the title, for he looked to be somewhere in his teens. And if there was one thing the police force didn't do, it was to drag civilian kids into dangerous operations. So Maverick put his suspicions out of his mind, and gave the man what he wanted to know in exchange for the fifteen dollars deposited on his counter.

"So I hear there's a real hot racket runs around here," began the older of the young men.

"Maybe. How would you know?" Maverick replied, not entirely trusting.

"Met a couple of guys few weeks back. Names Pierce and Jocko. They mentioned something about it."

"How much you willing to cough up?" Money was always the question in dealings such as these.

"Ain't got more than five," the man said gruffly, shoving a grungy hand in his pocket. The shopkeeper snorted on derision.

"Sorry, no deal. Twenty minimum."

"Make it ten?" bargained the man.

"Fifteen and you got yourself a deal."

"Agreed. So what's the scoop?" The young man leaned in closer on the counter, almost secretively, while Maverick rattled off everything he knew about the subject.

"Sure, there's a gang operates round here, under some guy calling himself the Big Boss. Don't know what he looks like, though, and I don't know where his headquarters is, save that it's somewhere near the waterfront. If you wanna get in with him you'll have to find it, and even then it's a risk."

"That all you can give me for fifteen!?" The man was clearly irritated, but his anger only made Maverick laugh.

"Afraid so!"  
The customer tried again. 'What if I were to ask ya if ya knew anyone by the name of Benson?"

"I'd say take a right when you leave the shop, follow the street all the way down to Fish Lane, then head down to the waterfront." It was a private joke, and as he said it the tobacconist smiled a feral smile as the young man fumed.

"What kind of a dumb answer is that?"

"Do what I tell you, son, before you insult my intelligence."

The man snorted, tossing the fifteen dollars on the counter as he stormed out, silent young companion in tow. But despite the angrily hasty retreat of the two, Maverick carefully noted that they followed his directions.

* * *

"Fat lot of good that was," Davy muttered, sullenly kicking at a rock as they walked along. "That old fellah barely told us any more than we already knew. I'm beginning to think I should be talking after all."

"Cool it, babe," replied Micky, without anger. "We already discussed that. Besides," he added with a grin. "You're doing a wonderful job of playing mute!" At that, Davy's mood seemed to break a little and he swung playfully at his taller friend.

"Knock it off!" But he was smiling.

"Gee, I wonder who this Benson fellah is," Micky remarked thoughtfully, beginning a new topic. "Any guesses?"

"Probably some other flunky," replied Davy, noncommittally. "You?"

"Oh, I think he's -" Micky began, but he got no further, cut off by Davy's sudden, surprised tones.

"You're wrong. Whatever you were about to say - you're wrong. We both are."

"What?" Micky swung his head sharply round to look at his shorter friend, but stopped midway in surprise, finally realising what had made Davy say that. Then he let a short burst of laughter, partly because of the unexpected development before their eyes, and partly at his own self for not seeing what had been right in front of his eyes.

"Well who would have expected that?" He asked with a grin, as Davy let out a long low whistle.

Beside the street on which they walked, an old railroad goods station stretched track upon track almost to the water. However, looming between the last line of track and the sea was an old abandoned warehouse, along the dirty side of which ran a name in flaking paint:

_Benson and Co., Lumber Transport_

"Davy, babe," Micky cried, excitedly. "This is a better lead than before! It's probably the gang's hideout! Peter and Mike could be in there!"

Davy, however, was neither as sure nor as enthusiastic as the drummer. "Slow down, man, we don't need to be jumping to conclusions. That _might_ be the hideout. For all we know, it could just be another meeting place, or even just a coincidence."

"A coincidence? C'mon, Davy, what are the chances? It's probably connected in some way! Let's go check it out, at least."

"Okay," said the English boy, though he did not sound completely convinced. "But let's be careful."

"Of course," smiled Micky, obligingly. "And remember, if we meet anyone, let me do the talking, okay?"

"Right," Davy sighed, then added in a half-mumble: "How could I forget!"

Together they picked their way across the hundred-odd metres of railroad track, careful in case of oncoming trains - for while the warehouse was abandoned, the rails of the goods station was still in some use. They soon reached the other side, where the dirty aluminium wall rose tall above them.

"I suppose we should look for the door then, eh?" Davy said, quietly, for the very size of the building had reminded him of the sheer magnitude of the task he and Micky were trying to accomplish and he suddenly felt very small and impotent. Apparently Micky was having similar feelings, for it was a moment before he answered.

"Yeah."

Silently they began to work their way around the large warehouse, looking for an entrance.

* * *

Peter looked much better after a few hours' sleep, Mike decided as he watched his friend dozing on the opposite cot. He had not ever managed to get the Aspirin – upon asking, the guard had only laughed – but at least the bassist seemed in much less pain than he had been during their interview with Mr K.

Mike had gotten over his initial shock at finding his crooked former employer still hanging around LA, and still more at having discovered that he was married to the Big Woman. She, as far as he knew, was still in prison, and even if she managed to escape, Mike had no reason to fear her. Her husband hated her far too much to allow her to live if she escaped, but part of the Texan was almost sorry about that. Their parting, when she and her two cronies were being led away by the cops, had not been unfriendly.

But he had bigger things to worry about than Bessie Kowalski. For the first time since their capture, Mike began to notice just how ravenously hungry he was. He knew Peter was starving too, though his friend had not said it. He did not need too; Mike was his roommate and one of his best friends and they had been hungry many times – enough to know when each other were hungry. Vaguely Mike wondered if their captors even intended to feed them at all, considering that they would be dead by the end of the week.

Dead! The meaning of the word had barely begun to hit home with the boy. He didn't want to die. He didn't want Peter to die. What was dying, anyway? What happened after? Mike had never been religious, but he had always thought it impossible for something as intricate and deep as the human soul to just cease to exist after life had left the body. Of course, there was always the chance of rescue, but that seemed further away with every passing minute. The odd thing was that the more certain Mike became of not being rescued, the more desperate he became for escape.

Where were Micky and Davy? What had happened since he and Peter had been captured. Was Micky alright? Or was he as Peter had originally suspected – dead? _No_, Mike reminded himself sharply._ Don't think of that_.

How was Davy? The youngest member of the band would be worried sick about them, and Mike hoped desperately, for all their sakes, that Micky was alight. Davy would need Micky if the worst happened – he would need it even if it did not! As hot-headed as Davy was and as strong as he liked to appear, Mike knew his friend desperately needed support in situations like this.

Mike's reverie was broken by a double interruption: Peter's awakening and a solid knock on the door, which swung open less than a moment later. As Peter blinked and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, Mike stood up and crossed to him, taking a protective stance beside his friend in case the intruders should wish them harm.

But his worries were unfounded – the man who entered was bearing nothing but a tray carrying two bowls of some sort of stew. It looked far from appetising, but at least it was food, and on the plus side it was still steaming. He placed the tray on the small rickety table in between the beds, while behind him the guard pointed his gun at the two boys to deter them from trying to run for freedom while the door was open.

Mike tried the stew tentatively, and grimaced. It was truly dreadful. The guard saw his expression and let out a short, halting laugh.

"See, Vaughan? I told you your cooking stank!"

"It's not my fault! Nobody else ever volunteers! But," he added, in a more conspiratorial tone. "Words has it there's a couple new guys being interviewed by the Boss. Maybe one of them can cook instead."

" That'll be a relief. However their cooking is, it can't be worse than yours!"

"Aw, shuddup. I didn't ask for your opinion," Vaughan snarled. Then he swung on Mike and Peter, suddenly. "But don't you kids get to comfortable, y'hear? 'Cuz Charlie's askin' the boss for permission to have a little fun with you before George gets here." Mike's eyes widened in alarm, and Peter gulped. Vaughan and the guard only laughed all the harder at their obvious fear.

When they finished crowing, the two men left the room. The door slammed with a bang and the boys heard the lock click back into place, and the boys were once again alone. They sat almost motionless, tense and silent, until Peter suddenly spoke up, his voice filled with fear.

"Do you think there's a way out of this, Mike?"

But Mike could not give him an answer.


End file.
